lavender's blue (if you love me too)
by pearypie
Summary: Where Ciel learns that love really does make mockeries of men but (just this once), he'll allow it. For her.


In truth, he doesn't know why he's here. After all, what he did was _right_ —it was good, correct, and for god's sake it was _moral._ For the first time since the fire, Ciel Phantomhive had done something _moral_ and _good_ and he couldn't even savor the moment of integral superiority. In all technicality, breaking another person's heart was wrong, but so was shackling that person (who you _maybesortakinda_ loved) to a life of hellish torment as wife of the Queen's Watchdog.

What good was the concept of marriage when it meant extinguishing an angel's flame? Oh he knows it's cliched in _so many ways_ but what was Elizabeth Midford but the purest expression of love? Of redemption, happiness, purity and every other virtue his muddled mind can think of? It was strange really, how much love she had in her—how she could be both strong and soft, loving and firm, exuberant and sweet. In his mind's eye, she was gilded as the sun's rays and colored by the warmth of the promised dawn. She was meant for light and delicacy, a life of contented simplicity in a red brick manor with rambling rose vines and dark green ivy.

Yet here he stood, not a week later, with a bouquet in his arms and hope on his tongue.

 _Come back to me,_ he wants to say but knows his pride will not allow it. He's always been too proud—far too proud—for his own good. He is cognizant of that, even if he chooses to ignore it most of the time.

But here and now, Ciel is desperate.

He misses her—he misses everything about her. It's pathetic and pitiful for him to admit such a thing but ever since _that_ day, he's been waiting for whirlwind visits, lace doilies on walls, and scattered pink handkerchiefs decorating his mansion floor. He's been waiting for unexpected visits and a clear, soprano voice but all he gets, day in and day out, is silence.

Silence and controlled order. Everything in its place, structured. Clean. Just the way he likes it.

Except now, Ciel realizes with growing, solemn awareness, he _doesn't give a damn_ if his inkwell isn't filled 3/4 of the way or if the paintings are half an inch out of place. He can't even bring himself to notice the meticulous little details he's always paid attention to because _she's_ not here. He's grown accustomed to her face—to hearing her laugher ringing through the halls, the scent of her sunshine-citrus fragrance perfuming every room she entered.

He missed seeing scattered copies of William Wordsworth on his study room sofa, of random little notes she would write and hide in discrete areas for him to find two or three days later. He even misses the way she would bookmark passages for him, using strips of colored satin with her initials embroidered at the bottom.

 _Lizzy._

Ciel grits his teeth. It was now or never. He has no doubt that he looks like a lovestruck fool, carrying roses and apologies, but what does he care? He can't focus without knowing that Lizzy is happy and smiling, and the image he has of her—tearstained and full of sorrow—haunts him, day in and day out.

Even Sebastian has caught on to Ciel's obvious agony though the demon, for once, has shown some restraint. "Perhaps it would be best, young master, to sup with the lady in question and see what peace you can accrue from such an event."

It was the least helpful piece of advice he's ever received and yet, here he was.

Love really did make a mockery of man.

* * *

"Her ladyship will be down shortly." A portly maid announces.

Ciel doesn't hear her. Instead, he's pretending to admire the high, airy ceiling of the Midford estate; of the floor to ceiling glass windows and gold embossed furniture. It was all so…unusual. Here, everything was a Renaissance—a new beginning, a promise of something better. And _didn't Lizzy deserve better?_ Better than him, better than being chained to a life underground, deprived of all color and joy?

Part of him hates how selfish he is, how unwilling he is to let go of Lizzy and set her free. From the corner of his eye, Ciel can see Sebastian calmly staring at the honey wood doors, a smug half-smirk still in place.

Ciel wants the damn bastard to drop dead. If this didn't work, he was exiling Sebastian to the Undertaker's workshop for a week.

Yet it was now, when he stood at the precipice of madness, that the doors opened and in stepped Lizzy. Golden, golden Lizzy—whose twin tails, he noted absently, were gone. Instead, her golden curls cascaded down her back and really, when had her hair become so long? It nearly reached the small of back, bright and shimmering, it was held half-up by a red velvet ribbon that Ciel did not entirely dislike.

Perhaps something encrusted with pearls. He remembers (if not a bit faintly) how Lizzy loved freshwater pearls.

"Elizabeth." He surges, willfully ignoring how undignified this whole process was becoming.

She looks up at him, emerald eyes startled and—why isn't she rushing towards him? Why hasn't he been swept up in one of her breathtaking embraces? Why isn't she smiling? His footsteps falter as Lizzy continues to stand there, looking adorably confused—and very, very uncertain.

"Elizabeth, are you aright?" They're standing face to face now and he really hopes she answers his question because, quite frankly, he doesn't know what else to say.

"I'm…quite well." She manages, briefly glancing at the grandfather clock to her left. "Is something the matter? You see, mother won't be home for another hour and father is away on business." She pauses. "Edward's still at Weston."

Ciel wishes she'd listed those names one at a time. That way he could've carried on the conversation for another three or four minutes. Now, he realized (with growing agitation), he'd run out of things to say but his worry dissipates when Lizzy lets out a soft gasp.

"Oh goodness," she flushes, "I've been terribly rude haven't I? Please Ciel," she gestures to one of the many armchairs and sofas scattered around the room, "make yourself comfortable."

For a while Lizzy fussed over him, calling in two maids (one named Justine, the other, Mavis) who brought in silver trays piled high with neatly frosted cakes in delicate shades of pink and sweetly spiced India tea.

"Lizzy—"

"Yes?"

Ciel sets down his teacup. "I didn't come here for tea." He really has no idea how to begin this whole thing.

After all, how does one _apologize?_

It was such a strange, foreign concept and the confusion must have shown on his face. Gently, he felt Lizzy's fingertips brush against his wrist. "Ciel?" She asked, eyes kind and voice sweet, a small smile dancing on her rose pink lips. "Are _you_ alright?"

"Hm? Me? Oh yes, yes—fine." _Continue the conversation!_ He looks up and meets Lizzy's eyes and for _god's sake,_ why did she have to be so beautiful? "Work has been…tedious." _Tedious? **Tedious?** She knows you're the Queen's Watchdog, you fool—why not just lie outright and say you've spent the past week building homeless shelters for the poor and impoverished of London?_

He blinks.

When did his conscious become so aggravating?

"Well perhaps tedious is the wrong word." He tries again. "Mortifying is more like it. I was in Dundee last month, do you remember?"

"Oh yes!" Lizzy nods eagerly. "What a sweet little town! James Keiller made his orange marmalade there and…" she frowned for a moment before smiling, a bright, dazzling smile, "her majesty's ships can be found at their port!"

Ciel is somewhat impressed. "Not many people know Dundee as anything more than the home of the Tay Bridge disaster."

"Not many people love marmalade as much as I do." She laughed and Ciel couldn't help but admire how genuine she sounded—how everything about her was always genuine and warm and sweet. There was no need for her to put on airs or fake pretension; Elizabeth acted and spoke from her heart, with unrestrained emotion and pure sincerity.

A small part of him had always been in awe of her ability to be so bright. Wasn't she ever tired?

"Not at all, the nightingale was singing outside my window last night so I slept quite well."

Ciel flushed. _Did he really ask that out loud?_

"Ciel are you sure you're feeling alright?" Lizzy pressed one lily-white hand to his cheek. "Shall I have Mavis bring you some cold water?"

"No, no—that won't be necessary." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's just…" he struggled to formulate a sentence that could convey his regret and curiosity but all he managed was, "Lizzy, why haven't you thrown a vase at my head yet?"

She blinks. "Huh?"

 _No turning back now._ "I expected you to be angry—furious, perhaps, at what I'd done. At the very least, I expected a few books to be thrown my way. Perhaps an ash tray as well."

Lizzy looks hurt. "I'd never try to intentionally hurt you, Ciel."

"You certainly didn't hold back when you saw myself and Sieglinde on the floor two years ago."

"Sully looked absolutely terrified!" Lizzy's cheeks burned. "And you had her wrists pinned to the ground and—the both of you were so flushed and…very preoccupied!" She looked down, voice quietening. "I didn't mean to lash out so horribly but I've worked very hard to try and be less impulsive. Mother says it's terribly unladylike so I've spent my afternoons practicing ballet instead." Ciel looks at her, somewhat puzzled. "To control myself." She explains with a sad smile. "Oh Ciel, I can't blame you for doing what you did. I've been a wretched fiancée, haven't I?"

"No!" He surprises both of them when he leads forward, clasping Lizzy's hands with his own. "You haven't, not in the least, no." He shakes his head.

"I won't hold you to any obligation or guilt." She murmurs, eyes downcast.

 _Obligation?_ Is that how Lizzy saw herself? As an obligation he'd been forced to endure?

 _Then again, have you ever allowed her to think differently?_ His conscious prods, leaving Ciel with a slash of cold, undeniable guilt running down his side. _I couldn't,_ his mind reasoned, _Lizzy is **pure** and **good** and everything **innocent.** There are Rubicon's even I refuse to cross—I won't ruin her._

 _Since when is loving someone ruinous?_ His conscious snarled.

 _Antony and Cleopatra. Abelard and Heloise. Lancelot and Guinevere. Shall I continue alphabetically or chronologically?_

 _Liar. You aren't that altruistic. You let the purest thing in your life go because you were **afraid.**_

And how can he not be, he wants to scream. The Queen's Watchdog—the bitter little boy who sold his soul to the devil in exchange for a drop of revenge—doesn't _deserve_ to fall in love with a jade-eyed girl who looks just like an angel.

"I'm sorry." The words slip out of his mouth before even has a chance to deny them.

Elizabeth looks eyes, emerald eyes shining with unshed tears and raw, unspoken affection.

Even after everything he'd put her through, even after he shattered her heart a week and a half ago… _she still loves him._

And no matter how good he tries to be, he can't banish that part of himself that's inherently selfish, inherently wanting.

"Please don't apologize." Lizzy voice is bell-like and it shakes him from his revere. Her smile reminds him of sunsets on water. "I seem to cry at the drop of a hat these days." She gives a weak chuckle and Ciel squeezes her hand, heart pounding with anticipation because—

How _does_ one confess _I love you_ to the purest person in their life?

In between his pondering, Ciel misses her sharp intake of breath, doesn't see how her eyes light up and her lower lip trembles.

It's not until she's brought his hand to her heart that he looks up, eyes wondrous, and she smiles at him, a dazzling, incandescent smile of indescribable happiness.

"That's easy," she whispers because _of course_ it's easy for her. She has so much _love_ and _hope_ and _goodness_ welled up in her that all she's missing are the wings and halo. "You just say it, Ciel." Her voice breathy and sweet and suddenly everything is white and Ciel can see a promise, one that's finally within reach. Lizzy learns close, her golden curls pool onto his lap—and she laughs, soft and sweet.

It takes Ciel a minute to realize what's happened but when he does—

"Marry me." He demands, because he's never been very good at asking. "Marry me."

* * *

The Phantomhive ring—the one that belonged to his mother—fits Lizzy like it's been made for her.

No one notices the butler in the corner, ruby eyes glimmering and smile a mile wide. _Well done, young master,_ he wants to cheer, _and may I welcome, at long last, Countess Elizabeth Phantomhive._

* * *

 **A/N: Whimsy writing (for when I can't sleep LOL) I don't know how I turned Ciel into a comedic character but… XD reviews would be lovely :)**


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